I Hate What You've Done With The Place:Scenes
by Cactusgirlie
Summary: Drabbles and short one-shots that exist in I Hate...'s universe but don't quite fit within the main narrative.
1. Chapter 1

**I Hate What You've Done With The Place - Deleted Scenes**

**Fandom:** CSI:NY

**Pairings:** Mixed bag

**Rating:** T for both language and consistency with the main story.

**AN:** I've been working on the upcoming chapters of I Hate... and have written and outlined a huge number of scenes (and conversations and character thoughts) that I want to include in the story. The hard work comes with piecing it all together and trying to make it into an entertaining story with a coherent plot. It's like a putting together a massive jigsaw puzzle and not being sure if you actually have all the correct pieces in the box.

There are some pieces which just won't fit, no matter how hard I smash them with my fist. Some of them will be published here if I think that they help to round out the plot, character actions or my own little take on the CSI:NY universe. I'm definitely trying to take a 'show, don't tell' approach to the main story so this might be it's 'tell rather than show' accompaniment.

There are some very slight spoilers for the third chapter of I Hate... in this drabble. That type of thing will probably happen a lot here as plot threads get tied up and I dash back and forth in the timeline.

Disclaimer: I still don't own CSI:NY or any of the characters. I'll let you know if that changes any time soon.

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><p><strong>Some of Danny's thoughts after Flack drags him into the diner<strong>

What was I supposed to say when Flack asked me what happened? How the hell do I even start to explain how fucked up this is? I've no doubt that some sick bastard is trying to paint me a pretty picture. An obscene two-fingers up at my home, security, privacy, my memories. And not just mine. Montana's too.

I'm not quite sure why I ran. It was either run or vomit, I guess. And running got me further away from that mess even if it didn't quite get rid of the pictures running through my mind. I've seen a lot of twisted shit in my career. Blood. Guts. Decomposition. I've killed people and I've seen others be killed. I lived through 9/11 and some of the things I saw that day will never leave me. I have dreams where I'm stuck, Groundhog Day style in the aftermath and if I make it to a ripe old age, I'll probably still have those dreams. Still doesn't prepare me for closing my eyes and being unable to shake an image that feels like it's carved right into my sore lids. The only thing I know for certain is that Lindsay can never see the images I'll never shake. She might not need my protection but I can't help but give it.

I did consider telling Flack about the significance, the perfectly crafted but utterly crude symbolism, of the pool table and the mannequin. A gift I gave on her return from Montana wrapped around it's left wrist.


	2. Chapter 2

**I Hate What You've Done With The Place: Deleted Scenes**

**Characters/Pairings:** Don Flack Jr (and Don Flack Jr Jr)

**Rating:** T for mildly suggestive adult themes. No strong language or violence

**AN:** After I shut down my computer last night I was seized by a sudden urge to to write about Don's terrible date, mentioned off-handedly in the first chapter of I Hate... I grabbed myself a pen and paper and this just came pouring out instead. Poor Don, he's obviously not having much luck at the moment.

This is an irrevent little fic where Flack has a little image problem. Set prior to the events in I Hate... but most definitely part of the same universe.

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><p>Donald Flack Jr was finding it harder to get laid.<p>

He supposed it could be the stealthy creep of age. Or maybe his recent haircut. It was probably the new tie his mother had insisted on sending him the previous week. There were reasons Don could give for his recent lack of success with the opposite sex but most of them would be big, fat lies.

Because honestly, getting Don Flack Jr Jr a little Somethin' Somethin' had become a noticably more difficult task since Don's wingman had decided to go absent without leave.

It wasn't that women had only stuck around for Messer. A ridiculous notion if ever Don had heard one. Laughable really. No, it was that Don wore his blue NYPD aura like a classically tailored, thick wollen coat. It was subtle but unmistakeable. Plenty of girls wanted to date cops, sure; but a true blue detective, drinking on his own in a bar? Well that tended to conjure up every bitter, borderline alcoholic, divorce-happy stereotype that mustard-tinted '70's detective shows could muster. The girls were only interested in the buddy comedy. Flack thinks he should look into acquiring a beige mac.

"Just one more thing" he mutters as he reaches for his tumbler of scotch.


End file.
